In Memory

This morning, he didn’t show up for work. There was no substitute to fill in for him, because he hadn’t called for one, or let the school know that he wouldn’t be coming in. His wife called during first period to let the school know that he had passed away the night before.

The decision was made not to tell the kids what had happened until Monday. On Monday there would be grief counselors in the school, and a proper assembly to notify all of the students. But in such a small school, there’s really no keeping something like this quiet.

It was the school chorus teacher, Mr. Maldonado, a beloved Puerto Rican man in his late 40s, who wore a beret-like hat and was fiercely passionate about his work and his students. He had been at the school for many years, and a part of most students' lives since they were in 5th grade. On Thursday he came to school, taught his classes, and stayed after to rehearse with the cast of ‘Grease’. On Friday he didn’t come in. No one yet knows what happened.

The students put two and two together quickly, as they tend to do. They noted his absence, the tears of so many of their teachers, and the unusual traffic in the hall outside his classroom.

“Where’s Mr. Maldonado?” the questions began. Teachers averted their eyes as they evaded the truth, saying that they didn’t know, that he was absent. But kids are wise, and in situations like these, they seem to have some instinct.

The official word was not to tell the students. Immediately, we all thought of the kids who would be most devastated - the ones whose lives he had most obviously touched. It seemed cruel to let them go home, and spend the weekend wondering, hearing rumors from their friends. And yet the principal remained firm through the day - we were not equipped to handle the grief or answer the inevitable questions now. We must wait until Monday.

“It’s true, Mr. Maldonado died?” asked one of my students.

“We don’t know anything for sure,” a teacher replied. The student thought it over.

“If he isn’t here on Monday, or Tuesday, then we’ll know,” he said thoughtfully.

Teachers were crying, crowding into the office to get away from the curious eyes of the kids, who sought to comfort them, and to get answers. Eventually, there was no denying it to those students who demanded the answers most fervently, who were in tears at the thought of losing this mentor.

The 10 kids who were closest to him, who performed in his shows and went on trips with him, and cut class to be with him, were gathered together, and I and another teacher took them out of the steamy courtyard and up into my air-conditioned classroom. Part of this was damage control, isolating the few who knew for sure from the mass that was wondering, and another was out of respect. We spend all of our time earning the trust of these kids - we couldn’t lie to them anymore.

In the room they sat silently - a rarity for any eighth grader, but especially for this outgoing bunch of performers. Tears streamed down their faces, and for 20 minutes, no one spoke, they just hugged one another.

There is little to say in this situation. Another teacher, one more equipped than I to handle their grief, came into the room and cried with the kids.

“We have to be sad, we are all hurting, but then we have to be happy, and remember him for his joy and humor,” she told them. She talked about her own struggle, and how hard it was to get past the sadness. The kids were responsive to her - and 2 of the girls began recalling their own happy memories of him. One of my students sat alone, apart from the group, tears running down his cheeks in silence.

This is a flamboyant boy named Darien, who dances when he walks. He is effeminate in every way, and deviant enough that people respect him. He sashays into class everyday, calling himself Britney, and Lady Gaga, and talks about pole dancing. He sings and dances unabashedly, and is never silent. Now, however, he had no words. Darien is a boy who needs a lot of attention. When I get to the end of my rope and demand that he require less attention, he explains to me that he doesn’t get any attention at home. His father never speaks to him, and his mother is gone - a drug addict who isn’t in his life. He wrote a poem earlier this year about feeling invisible, having no one to celebrate him or come to his shows, or ask him questions, or be interested in his life.

Today he lost a man in his life who genuinely cared. A man who got to the end of his rope much more slowly than the rest of his teachers, and who made Darien feel good about himself. Much of it likely had to do with the fact that he was the chorus teacher, and that Darien easily excelled in this class, but it was also that this man had far more patience than most of us. I looked at Darien and my heart broke thinking of what he had lost - someone who really saw him in a way that perhaps no one else did. Darien got into a good high school - one for performing arts - and the person who he ran to to tell was not his father, or even me and Ms. Jimenez, who love him - it was Mr. Maldonado.

In our school, chorus isn’t a small elective. It is one of 3 talent classes. 1/3 of the school attends chorus for hour and a half blocks. They also get pulled out of class and stay after school in order to practice.

The shows are never amazing, the kids never exceptional, but it’s middle school, and it’s not really about that.

There’s a big, loud, crazy 8th grader who sat in my room, her whole big frame shaking with sobs. This is girl who teachers beg to skip class, who is so loud and destructive that we are often happy when she skips class to go to chorus. But for all the craziness that prevented her from having success in so many classes, she found a home in chorus. Chorus made her feel like there was something that she could do.

A 7th grade Puerto Rican girl with long blonde hair, who people say looks like my daughter, also resembled the chorus teacher, and shared his last name. Her mother died of a drug overdose when she was in 5th grade. She is scarred by this - leaving class in tears if anyone makes a ‘yo mama’ joke, or mentions her own mother. She was the star of every show, standing in front, singing solo after solo. She called Mr. Maldonado her uncle, and he said that she ‘sang like a little bird.’ When she left class angry or upset, his room was where she retreated to.

There are countless tales to exhibit his impact - the lives that he touched. In this challenging neighborhood, with these kids coming from such a variety of harsh backgrounds, he was someone who really loved them, who made them feel loved. No matter how they disappointed him, got in trouble, threw tantrums, or aggravated him and the others in the school, he always took them back.

He always said he couldn’t sing, and he didn’t know why he was the chorus teacher. His shows were always the same, the kids slightly off tune, dressed in semi-matching, at times inappropriate clothing, swaying to the music with great rhythm. But he was so proud of them. He was relentless at his work.

He made me crazy pulling my students out of class all the time for his shows. I would get upset that they were missing academics for chorus, frustrated with how much class they missed. But he really believed that it was necessary - that what they were doing was the most important thing in the school He made them feel important. He would play the piano in the auditorium, furiously waving his arms, growing red in the face as he conducted the chorus, and nursed a solo out of a shy 6th grader.

In short, he really was everything that you want a teacher to be. When you leave, for whatever reason, you want to have had a deep impact, to have loved your students, to have given them a gift that they will carry with them. For all of his students, regardless of their successes or failures in academics, he gave them something to feel good about. He got them to stand on a stage during their most awkward adolescent years, and sing in front of their peers, and feel great about it afterwards. He let their parents come to school and feel pride as they saw their son or daughter swaying tot he music and clapping a beat, belting out Spanish love songs.

He will be missed, and remembered, most of all, by the people who matter most. His students.

Tight

“Miss Klein, How you spell ‘horse’?” NK, one of my students asks me.
“h-o-r-s-e” I spell it out for him slowly. He is asking me how to spell horse because it is the password for our class computer. Originally, the password was the same as all the other computers in the school – ‘dellteach’. One day, one of our most enterprising students didn’t take his medication, and had a nice time changing the passwords. He even went as far as to change the ‘hint’ that you got when you forgot your password.

I clicked on the ‘hint’ in order to find a way to unlock the computer. ‘You Tight!’ was the clue that came up at me. I was indeed tight.

Tight means angry, frustrated, pissed off. If something doesn’t go your way, you are tight. If someone gets in your way, or makes you mad, you are tight. If you are tight, you have license to do pretty much anything.

One of my sweetest students got into a fight, and came to tell me about it, her hair still rumpled and her cheap gold necklaces ripped from her neck. She beams as she recalls that we won. To win a fight is to ‘wash’ someone. This girl told me that she ‘washed’ her opponent.

“You!? Why?!” I was shocked that this sweet girl would be fighting. She shrugged in response, and smiled shyly. “Seriously, why?” I asked again. This time she answered.

“She got me tight.”

success

D, move your desk to the outer circle. O is taking your place.

“NO! Miss - please! I’ve been doing better!”
“Yes - you were - but then you decided to be crazy this week and we can’t have that in the inner circle. I need the craziness to be a little further away.”
“But O isn’t good for the inner circle! He won’t fit in here! He’s annoying.”
“I agree, he is annoying, but less annoying than he was. He’s being rewarded for making small improvements in himself.”
“Noooooo, I’m not moving.”
“D, earn your way back, and I’ll be happy to move you. The inner circle can always expand.”
“O will never make it here - his days are numbered and then I’ll be back!”

Sure enough, less than a week later the tables turned, and O switched spots with D, yet again.


This week there were Math state exams. Last week was ELA state exams. Both were easy - painfully, embarrassingly, simple. And on both, the students made errors. It’s not hard to get a 4 on a state exam. Around the country, students do it with their eyes closed. But not in my school. In my school a 4 is something big - something to celebrate. My students joined hands in prayer before the test, as though making it known that things were out of their hands.

I feel successful. I never thought I would say that - and I still am conflicted about how to define success, and what this period of time means in the greater scheme of my life - but I know that I feel successful when I look at my role in the school. I have founded, edited, and produced a school newspaper, which is now on its 3rd edition. I have pulled articles out of children, and shown them that they can see their name in print.

I have created school dances - successfully, cost-effectively, and for the first time in several years. We have the second one coming up on May 13th. The first dance, there was no support, just myself and another teacher, scraping together materials to decorate and coordinate the dance. this time, we have a budget, a theme, and the whole school excited to go.

I have done fundraisers, after-school programs, helped kids with their high school applications and portfolios, and planned field trips. And I’ve taught.

Out of all of it - this is the most remarkable. Teaching. Last year, it felt like a miracle every time that my kids learned. Now, though I still feel like I rely on luck, I find that I am teaching every day - and every day they are learning.

Social Studies is their favorite. They shout out their opinions and their questions about the world. I taught them all about World War II, and my isolationist class was outraged that we got involved in a problem that wasn’t ours.
“Why are we getting involved? That’s their problem!” I tried to frame it as a violence that could be extended if it weren’t stopped. They struggle with this level of foresight.

We learn about the war in the Pacific.

“Yo - I would be mad scared to go to war with Japan!”
“Right!!?? They got mad technology!”
“And they multiply mad fast!”

At least their stereotypes are somewhat informed. Usually their generalizations are wildly off base: “The Irish hate beer!”, “Asians can’t read!”

But they are interested, they are engaged, and they retain the information that I spoon-feed them. They can tell you about the cause and effect chain of events that led to WWI, and then from WWI to WWII. They can easily describe the impact of the Treaty of Versailles, and watching Chicken Run, they can decipher which characters represent communism, and which represent capitalism.

It’s a story - and it’s not even THEIR story, given that most of these kids are not from the United States, but it’s fascinating nonetheless, and they are brimming with 8th grade opinions. In Social Studies, they can share their opinions - they can make them relevant to the content - they can argue, debate, and question. And it makes the information stick to them. It lets them own it.

When they go to high school - I want them to be able to advocate for themselves, fight for an education, fight for knowledge. But they don’t know what it feels like to be excited about learning. They don’t get praise for it outside of school, and so they don’t strive for it in school. But I think that they have fun in class, these days. They are triumphant in math class, interested in social studies, and proud in ELA. They have a million miles to go, but giving them a taste of success makes me feel successful. And even if their success on State Exams won’t compare to that of students in Westchester, maybe this little slice of success is something important right now.

Circles

We rearranged the desk in our classroom. It’s not the first time that we have done this this year - usually it is reactive as opposed to proactive. Cliques need to be broken up, we need to do more work based on reading levels, we can’t stand to have certain kids so close to the front of the room for another second.

This time it was no different - a reaction - but we carefully calculated our moves to have a maximal impact. What we could take no more of was laziness, and we created a seating chart based not on ability level, but on ambition.

We created two semi-circles - one inside the other. Both circles opened at the front of the room, so that Ms. J and myself could easily walk to the center of the circles to address the class.

The inner circle is made up of the kids who do their work, pay attention in class, ask questions, and are generally engaged. The outer circle is made up of the kids who feel entitled to pass, but not inclined to do any work. We created this arrangement without a word about our criteria, but when people saw who was where, it spoke for itself. Some kids were unhappy about being placed on the outer circle.

“What am I doing here?!” asked one particularly entitled girl.
“You sleep in class. It’ll be easier for you to get some rest if you are in the back.” we explained.
“Uh, uh, I do not belong here,” said another perpetually confused girl. She can never understand why we pick on her for not doing work or coming to class. She began to nudge her desk forward, toward the inner circle. Halfway through class I had to reprimand her to return to where she belonged, in the outer circle.

The hope is that the inner circle will grow, and the outer circle will shrink. Hopefully having this visual representation of how hard you work will inspire some ids to work harder. For some it is helpful. There are several kids who will soon be promoted to the inner circle.

And to be perfectly honest, those on whom this has no influence, I’m happy to have further from me. It’s nice to spend a little less time convincing them to learn, and a little more time just showing them how.

Spring Fling

My students really excel at non-academic ventures. At the carnation sale that my class organized for Valentines Day, they were rock-stars. They transformed into artists, salespeople, and project managers. I was proud.

When myself and one other teacher decided to plan a school dance, I was confident that my students would be able to execute on the plan. We picked a date and a theme, got all necessary permission and funding, and then began the publicity. This was really their show - I told them to make posters, and out came glitter and clue and sharpies. They covered enormous sheets of paper with flowers and butterflies, advertising the dance. They covered the school with their brightly colored propaganda - come to the dance and be cool.

One day, the came to me in a panic - people were saying they weren’t going. 5 previous dances had been cancelled, and there hadn’t been a successful dance at the school in 5 years. This is why we decided to take the project on in the first place, but it was also the major obstacle that we faced. It was hard to invest kids in going to something that they doubted would happen.

I looked at the gaggle of pretty, popular girls who populated my class. This was an occasion when I could profit from the things that usually drove me crazy - their loud, obnoxious cattiness, their obsession with boys and popularity, and looking nice. Their unbelievable, unbreakable confidence.

I wrote in big block letters across the top of a poster: “Sign below if you’re going to the Spring Fling!” Peer pressure exists whether we like it or not - we may as well use it to our advantage. I had my class sign the poster, and told the girls to make it very known that they would be at the dance. Soon the whole page was covered in names - many of whom would never actually get permission slips signed by their teachers allowing them to go. Regardless - I felt like a huge success, and like for a split second I had had a useful bit of insight into the psychology of 13 year olds.

Filled with confidence, I wrote on another enormous poster: “Songs we want to hear at Spring Fling!” Kids went wild, writing their favorite songs. We followed closely behind them, crossing out profanities, but the goal was achieved - the kids felt like they had some ownership over the dance.

The turnout was as good as to be expected - we had DJ Koala (a student in my class) having the time of his life as his peers danced to the songs he spun. We bought disco lights and streamers and transformed the cafeteria as well as we could. We created a backdrop for them to take pictures in front of (since everyone knows that’s what dances are really all about), and we served fried chicken and yellow rice (for some reason, people in the Bronx feel strongly that dinner food MUST be served at any event. My idea of chips and salsa was laughed off as soon as it was put on the table.)

May 13th is going to be the ‘Beach Ball’ - a dance to celebrate the end of the ELA and MAth State exams. We will have a luau theme, and are ordering leis, beach balls,a nd grass skirts. It’s amazing how many people are supporting the effort this time. The Spring Fling was a guerrilla movement, led by myself and one other TFA teacher at the school. Because of its success, we have the principal giving us funds to order real decorations, and other school aides brainstorming how to create a beach theme.

But again, it goes back to the kids. In a situation like this, success depends on not only their poster making skills, but on the groupthink that dominates their lives. As long as the Beach Ball is still the ‘cool’ thing to do when May 13 comes, we’ll have a great success.

Sinking Ships

Imagine that you are on a sinking ship. You know it is sinking, and every day it gets a little closer to going under. On the ship, you know how to swim, but none of the other passengers do. You offer to teach them - to save their lives.

“I know how to swim!” you exclaim, excited that you have the opportunity to help. “I can teach you all - I can save your lives! Just do everything that I say and you will be able to swim - you will live!” You begin to tell them what to do. You first show them an example, demonstrating floating, strokes, and breathing. Then you ask them to do it with you.

“F-ing Redneck!” says a voice in the back. You look around. Surely this voice is not referring to you - you aren’t a redneck - you are teaching EVERYONE to swim, regardless of their race.
“F-ing white trash skank!” the voice repeats itself, just as you begin to show them breaststroke. You glance at yourself - certainly you are white, but you don’t think that the ‘trash’ part could really be in reference to you. You actually look quite classy today. You go on, ignoring the strange distraction, attributing it to some poor soul’s bad case of turrets.
“I hate that f-ing teacher - she’s such a redneck - always talking.” Hmmm...no other teachers around...it’s a little harder to deny that this comment may be in reference to you. And you do like to talk...


Perhaps I am making my job sound more noble than it is. Teaching isn’t exactly the same as swimming, and technically, the ship that we are on isn’t sinking. But things aren’t looking so hot for the future of my students, and I so have the capacity to share with them the skills that are vital to their future success.

And yet, as I struggle to lead them to a better future - take my class to higher ground - there are voices in the back which give me pause. No, I don’t mean that back of my head - in no part of my head do I think that I am any of the aforementioned things - I mean literally the voices that come from the back of the classroom, taunting me, harassing me, assaulting my confidence and sense of self.

Usually I block it out, ignore it, focus on the 25 other faces in the class who want to learn. The other day it got to me - I felt myself growing upset after 3 hours of ignoring it (I mean, how much can a person really be expected to endure?!). I went to the principal and pled my case. Really it was more of a negotiation - I said that I would be willing to reenter my classroom if the source of this harassment was removed and punished. I said this firmly, with much resolve, knowing all the while that nothing would happen and that I would have to hang my head and trudge back to my room - defeated.

But alas, for once my expectations were exceeded, and the lovely girl in the back of my room was suspended, and removed immediately from my room. For the first time, I fought for something, and it was granted - and to be honest, I didn’t even have to fight all that hard.

Maybe I have money in the bank that no one told me about.

Poems

My class is doing poems. They were asked to write about the topic of their choice, focusing on SHOWING rather than TELLING things. We spent a lot of time working on imagery and sensory details. They are all written in free verse and were taught about meter and rhyme. For most of the poems, the students chose not to use rhyme or meter.

Where I’m From

I’m from a trash can
Where is isn’t safe
Where the ghetto and the poor
Mostly live, every 30 minutes
I hear the ambulance

I am from a trash can
Where it’s hard to get an
Education but easy to get
A job. This is what I think of
A trashcan


Where I’m From


I come from where it is cold, warm
And hot. From sunny to cloudy to misty
I come from a place where people
Struggle to make ends meet. Where
People live in the street because they have
Lost their homes. Where the innocent die
In blood and the evil walk around
The cruel streets. I come from where
People have sickness that can’t be
Cured. I come from where
People think that war and violence
Is the answer to peaceful world. I
Come from where people think drugs
Are the answer to escape the world
I come from a world of evil.


Where I’m From


I’m from colored people
And Spanish people
Where the illegal scent of weed fills
The air.
Where the f-word
And the n-word are

Used as forms of communication
Where HIP-HOP
Was born, where
Grafitti ruins the
Space of abandoned
Buildings

Where people get shot
For no damn reason
Where the spicy flavor of
Fried chicken is so
Damn good. Where
The occupation of drug dealer is not
A job. Where the
Mayor’s million trees
Program is not working
Where the sanitation department’s
Workers spend
More than half an hour
Cleaning up one part of
The street. Where the
White new Yankee Stadium

Stands. Where
The two, five, six all
Crash through. Where
The Bronx bombers
Won 27 World Series
I’m from the south, south
Bronx.



Where I’m From

I’m from one of the
Five boroughs in New York City,
The city that never sleeps
You can make it here you
Can make it anywhere

I’m from brown brick buildings
With a green apartment door
6 different blocks and
96 buildings

I’m from a wash ‘n’ set
Every two weeks, a hot
Dryer, drying my hair
From being clean, nice
And healthy, rollers in
My hair and my hair
Dropping nice and silky
From hard work on my hair

A well loving educational family
Loves to party, nurture, and shop
To give and take, I love
Them so much.


Where I’m From

I come from the nicest to the rudest
From the loudest to the quiet
I’m from the Bronx
Where people do what they
Feel like without nobody telling
Them what to say or do

I’m just an ordinary girl that
Has dreams and goals but with
People screaming at me ‘yo shut up.’
Or ‘you useless girl do anything
Just get away from me.’ Or you
See men beating women or their
Kids. But this is the Bronx. Like
It or not. Does not matter you have
To deal with it.


Where I come From


I come from hip-hop that pounds
Against my ear drums
And pop that is music to
My ears with a melody of Gaga

I come from love when my friends
And family actually care about
Me, and HATE when I feel
Like killing but I wouldn’t do
That.

I come from my freckled face
Mom with hugs and kisses and
From my quiet dad with nothing
To say to me

I come from the dark Bronx
Where I’m scared to go out at
Night


Where I'm From

I’m from a trash can
Where is isn’t safe
Where the ghetto and the poor
Mostly live, every 30 minutes
I hear the ambulance

I am from a trash can
Where it’s hard to get an
Education but easy to get
A job. This is what I think of
A trashcan


Where I’m From


I come from where it is cold, warm
And hot. From sunny to cloudy to misty
I come from a place where people
Struggle to make ends meet. Where
People live in the street because they have
Lost their homes. Where the innocent die
In blood and the evil walk around
The cruel streets. I come from where
People have sickness that can’t be
Cured. I come from where
People think that war and violence
Is the answer to peaceful world. I
Come from where people think drugs
Are the answer to escape the world
I come from a world of evil.




I’m from the loudness
Coming out of homes and cars
My parents make me crazy from clam
They make me scream and tear.

I’m the caramel color of my skin
From the names I got that represents me
From the talk-a-lots
And attitudes and calmness sometimes

I’m from the spicy food
Where you need to drink water
Spice is in the food and candy
From spicy then sweet or sour

I’m from people that see things
And keep quiet
From looking at nothing to
looking at something
I’m from love to hate
Where either you’re loved or hated
From hurtful feelings or romantic feelings

I’m from people who have dreams
That come true
Or don’t work out


Where I am From


I am from Yankees games in the summertime
And playing first base and Kelly Park
I am from chocolate ice cream on a sugar cone
And the smell of fired chicken and white rice
I am from a closet overflowing with bright colored t-shirts
I am from pictures of myself on the walls
I am from girls I wish I could date
I am from a sister who makes me crazy
I am from a little brother who looks like me
But he behaves better
I am from a dad who always be in my school
And teachers who get me in trouble
I am from math tests that I get As on
And a best friend who calls teachers ‘redneck’
I am from football afterschool
- I am the best at catching
I am from hip-hop music and basketballs bouncing
I am from the coquies and bacalao
I am from leather gloves that play baseball
I am from schoolwork and essays and homework
I don’t do
I am from Xbox360 game systems
Call of Duty
I am from the Bronx and Puerto Rico and I.S. 217


I Am From


The sound of kokees
The tase of Samba Brazillian Steak
The sound of spongebob in the morning
Waking me up at 8:00 am
And being yelled, “Senaida Marie from
My grandma on weekends and “Senaida Marie
Ramirez” when I’m late to school.
I love the smell and taste of my grandmom’s
“papa con huevos” and “arroz con leche” from
My other grandmother.
I am from concrete on 174th street and
People getting mugged in the corners.
I am from a place where I’m scared to walk out at night. I am from
The spooky streets of the
BRONX.


Where I come From


I’m from a place where as soon as
You get off the train or bus you smell
Chicken

I’m from a family, a very big family, with plenty
Of children and adults

I’m from a family where there comes a time when everyone knows automatically to be
Serious
Well that’s when my mom comes around

I’m from tall people, thick women with
Big butts and busty breast



Where I’m from


I’m from the loudest block
Where people are crowded.
I am where you see black and white and tan.
I come from people in the corner
Selling iceys and patellilos
I am from the people in the street selling drugs.

I come from a middle class family
I am a spoiled brat
I am from the loudness
And from the crazy gossip

I come from “what you looking at”
To people so judgemental
I come from a violent place
Where people fight, to get killed
or to get high

I come from a house full of
People being loud.
Nephew being annoying – all the time.
All I see is mama cooking
For the family to get us full.
I come from the sweetest family
But loudest block


LOVE

Love is a connection
Which includes communication
Talking all day until my battery dies
When my phone charges I wish time flies by

Love is a chemical reaction
Test it out to see if that is your attraction
Feeling little butterflies in my stomach
Just by texting 1000 x 4

Love has memorable pieces
Which include hugs and kisses
Makes me feel different emotions
Like smiles to frowns
Because from loving you to missing you

Love includes loyalty
Which sometimes makes me feel
Like royalty

Where I'm From
I am from an older brother who
annoys me
I am from talking on the phone
I am from "she talks too much" and "she could do better."
I am from bad grades and being a
good girl
I am from my mom always coming to conferences
-yelling at me to do better.
I am from being a good friend to
people always counting on me.
I am from "you're out" "strike"
I am from grilled cheese, juicy snack wraps, salty french friends,
to the tomato sauce pizzas on days we don't want to cook.
I am from "hola", "hello" "que ases" and "hi"

Love Poem

I’ll always be beside you till the very end
Wiping your tears away, being your best friend
Love you for your warmth and sweetness
Love you for your humor , too
I love you especially just for being you
And if you cry a single tear
I promise I’ll cry too


Love


You were always there
When I needed you
We played
We protected each other
And helped each other

We always compete
In school
Outside the yard
But the next year
You disappeared
I left elementary school
Without you



Poem

The sound of arguments at night between
My parents wasn’t the best nights of my childhood
They’re separated now and I thought it
Would be better
Know I have sobbing nights
The comfort of hot chocolate
And hugged by pillows was the best
Having to live in two separate
worlds
Listening to my iPod, traffic
Noise, trains going but I feel
As if they trying to cheer
Me up and say it’s okay
Trying to cheer me up with dance classes
Hip hop and salsa I
Was still sad.